He Came In A Dream
by Dubiie
Summary: It's an old, ugly house, but all she can afford until she settles into the strange little town. Its' citizens aren't that friendly (though they whisper about her house, most of the time), and her neighbors keep throwing crosses at her lawn, but maybe they'll chill out after a while. But first, to get rid of that couch... [going to continue til I lose inspiration!]
1. He Came In A Dream

The living room is dark—no, dimly lit. I can still see the outline of the rough patch-work couch I'm holding onto, partially for support, and it's myriad of non-too-flattering colors. Anything beyond it, my anchor to the real, rational world, is fuzzy, muddy; a reflection of what the room would be I anxiety and nervous fear weren't coursing through my body. My fingers periodically clutch the couch's fabric tighter, then relax, grip, relax—my breath catches in my throat as a breeze lightly (innocently, though I know better) brushes my face.

It glides first across my cheek, so intimate my eyes close and I can't ignore the explosion of feelings my stomach thrusts upon me. That breeze moves on to my right cheek, and the left comes in contact with foreign lips… my eyes automatically attempt to jump open, but they can't. My mouth gasps open instead, the only objection I can give as my body follows my eyes and stays in place, paralyzed. My breathing picks up, my mind's eye is flashing pictures I can't put together at me, and all the while, the foreign lips turn into lips _and_ hands. The lips, so real and firm, trace my cheek bone to my throat before lightly kissing. The hands, oh, just one, snakes the trail the lips conquered, before wrapping my hair between the fingers and clutching tightly, harshly, though the pain in my scalp is completely numbed by the following small bite to my lobe—earning another gasp from my mouth.

The hand tangled in my hair is the size of my head and cups it delicately, causing an overwhelming calm and euphoric wave throughout my body—completely relaxed, my body crumbles and becomes immediately aware of the being controlling the tortuous devices bringing me further and further under.

The cold, strange absence of _something _I know the other should have clashes with my body's feeling of warmth, by those lips opening just so against my neck… oh, I sigh out into the still, musty room, god…

A snicker.  
The illusion is shattered.  
The presence gone. (What did I do wrong? What can I do to get it back?)  
My eyes open and finally scan the area.  
Nothing.  
Nothing but the dust, the memories of families living in this wretched house before me, and nothing but me… standing behind the ugliest couch I've ever seen, too excited and heavily breathing to do anything but stare.

"If you think _God_ made you feel that way…" a deep, growling voice whispers against my ear, lips brushing the edges, "… just wait."


	2. Gimmie Dem Crosses

This town is weird. It's the only way I can describe it. Straight up strange. Now, I've always been one to fall in love with the small towns; the ones with cute little downtowns, old shops, unique architecture and buildings, but… While this town has splashes of what attracts me to places, the people throw off every sense of soon-to-be-home balance I can find in it.

When you visit a destination in the hopes of, say, vacationing there, there are some things you immediately notice: as mentioned before, the buildings would be something to catch a normal person's eye. Perhaps the second and most important would be the people inhabiting said destination. If your vacation spot tends to be a place well visited, it's hard to tell your fellow tourists apart from the natives. But if it's a sleepy a place as Abenshire, there are no tourists bustling this way and that, hurrying to get to the next attraction before you do. There are just natives. Natives sending sideways glances your way when you go grocery shopping. Natives that, when you happen to notice those glances, look away quickly and try to pretend that No, I wasn't rudely staring at you and sizing you up, and No, I will not grow any sort of balls to welcome you to our fine town.

And this, my friends, is exactly how I was greeted upon moving into my new home. My name is Annabelle Crooks, and I just finished my undergraduate for Psychology at Clemson University. Please don't assume me a southern belle, though, I promise you that while I do have my southern moments, I am nowhere close to hosting my future daughter's debutant ball. Down south there are some, I guess, rules that everyone somehow knows, but really, Abenshire could really benefit from them. Like… Saying hi to people you know are new in town. Really, you walk down the street in Clemson, and you'll get smiles and one or two 'hi''s… These people walk around like they'll slap you if you speak to them! Anyway, I'm sorry; the grocery store is still on my mind. I had this older woman literally, wide-eyed, stare at me as I loaded my food onto the belt… She didn't stop until I turned and stared at her the same way. Really, is it so hard to just say something…?

Alright, alright—I digress. After graduating, I was itching to just go. To just move. To be out in the world by myself, to take it on like the matadors take on a crazed bull! And so, confident that I could do just that, I took the first offer I got from the head psychiatrist of Abenshire Hospital—the town's only medical provider with its own psychiatric ward. Everyone in town goes there, whether for their physical or mental maladies. I would have plenty of opportunities to advance, he said. Oh, naturally, the nightlife of the town can keep anyone entertained until the wee hours of the morning, he said. Come and we'll give you your own client list immediately, he said (okay, so the first and third are completely true, but the town dies as soon as it hits 9 o'clock).

Believing all that Dr. Wates told me, starry eyed and oh so happy to explore my new life, I took the offer and bought the cheapest house in town—an early 1900's red brick house with green cast iron fencing on the roof and surrounding the front yard. Green shutters and a green door came with it, solidifying my growing hatred for the color. Maybe I'll renovate once I get more money, but until then, I'm stuck with this color scheme—along with, I've found, even more rudeness from the town's citizens. Oh, yes, it gets worse. I'm not the most religious of people, no, you could call me… Not exactly atheist, because I am quite fine with the idea of higher beings watching over me and listening to me if I need them, but I honestly would rather keep it out of my daily life. If it makes sense… I imagine myself looking up to the heavens, and shouting, "God, you're doing a great job with whatever it is you're doing, but I'm going to keep going with my life, okay? Thanks!" We've got a pretty good relationship I think.

Though maybe the citizens can tell I'm more interested in the history of Greek gods than the history of their all-powerful and omnipotent God, because soon after moving in, I got crosses chucked at my front yard. Yes. Crosses. Many of them. I really feel I can start a collection now, and maybe sell it on eBay, I'm not quite sure yet. But they've graciously made it rain crosses on my not-so-green grass (that's not my fault either, come on people) every night, or morning, or whenever it is they drop the things off (maybe casually in passing? "Oh, this yard needs more cross, luckily I have one in my pocket.") and I have graciously accepted every one of them. Because with my southern upbringing, why would I not accept a present so thoughtfully given to me?

I won't pretend to understand these people.

But, I will help them with their disorders, which I am sure they have in the same abundance as their crosses!

It's been four days since I've moved in, and boxes are still scattered haphazardly around the house. Some in the living room, some in the kitchen, some in the room I've claimed as my sleeping chamber (imagine a vampire awakening from its' coffin, mist surrounding it and arms crossed—this is what I hope to accomplish with labeling it my "chamber"), and some in a room I've dubbed my office. Luckily for me, poor college graduate as I am, the house came to me partially furnished! The living room, for instance, is exactly as it was for the last owner, as well as the bedroom. But oh, don't you worry! There is no way, no way, I will be sleeping in someone else's bed—that thing is heading straight to the dump. Or Goodwill (I can get tax deductions from this option, so… Yay, saving money!) I've already had the movers set up my simple little kitchen table, my TV (with my Xbox, of course), my office desk, bookshelves, and filing cabinets, so all I have to do is what no one ever wants to. Unpack and organize. I start on Monday, and with it still being Thursday, this seems to be the only source of entertainment I can rely on until I can surround myself with paperwork.

And, with the sun still high though not offering much warmth on this cold fall day, I begin in the living room. The first thing anyone will notice upon entering my house is this disgusting old couch. It deserves to be torn apart by my cat (introducing King Louie XIV, the cutest thing on the face of the planet. He's currently running around and attempting to jump up walls, as is customary in his kingdom). I honestly hope he destroys it, because I want a reason to go and buy another one. His front claws were taken out a while ago, though, so my hopes are dwindling… The thing is an old burgundy color, with a checker board pattern of multicolored strings that pop up out of the couch as if to say, Color makes everything better! Well, I assure you it does not. Glaring at the offending sofa, I walk the few steps it takes to get to the back of it and rest my left hand on the top of it. Ugh. It even feels gross: scratchy and no doubt infused with the essence of its last owner.

It's with that thought that the room grows still. The scent of musk I'd gotten used to already invades my nostrils more than ever, and I'm stuck staring at my living room without really seeing it. Because I'm not focusing on the room anymore—I'm focusing on the overwhelming feeling of something else hovering all around me, engulfing me, pulling me under so far that the room is reduced to fuzzy figures that mean nothing.

And that is when the scene I described last time took place.

Go ahead, go and familiarize yourself with it, and try to imagine being in my place. Please, I would love to have someone else going through this with me right now.

Fuck, is all I can stand there and think after. What the fuck, my mind repeats, finally breaking out of the trance and feeling the room return to its' normal temperature. Okay. Alright.

"AHHH," I scream as I'm sprinting out the door, legs wobbling, the shriek a bubble of fear working its' way out of my body, "FUCKING HELP ME GODDAMN!" After bursting out of my front door, chest heaving, and into the sunlight of the real world, I stop short upon seeing my audience: two old ladies chucking two crosses with Jesus on them, and a young man casually strolling along past.

"Really?" I ask the ladies, my fear translating into anger, "Could you freaking stop with the crosses ladies? For the sake of the trees?"

They give me the meanest look I've ever gotten from a woman over the age of 60, and then rush off muttering "demon, hmpf!" I stare after them with my mouth agape, then turn to the man (who is laughing behind his hand at me and my woes) and ask, shocked, "Is everyone here like this? I don't need any more of Jesus's eyes on me."

He smiles some more, shakes his head (his back hair swaying slightly along with it), and shrugs, "Maybe you shouldn't be such a demon. Or curse so much."

I blink my eyes and shake my head a little in response, incredulous, "Excuse me?" The stranger laughs and shrugs once more, offering nothing else, "Well, thank goodness I moved here! I'll start my exorcism straight away!" With that cleverly sarcastic remark making me feel better about myself and my situation, I grab up the newest crosses to add to my collection and make my way towards my door before "… just wait…" whispers in my mind's ear again, sending shivers straight down my spine and stopping me in my tracks. There's no way I'm going back in there right now. One of the biggest mistakes people make when something fucking CRAZY happens to them is that, with some flash of brilliance, they go right back in the house, or the attic, or the basement. No thank you.

I look at my hands and realize I'm shaking; I'm lucky I didn't completely collapse like I usually do when I'm scared (it's a process I can write out in a couple of steps: first, I'm scared. Second, my legs go weak, and, depending on how scared I am, I will either wobble profusely or just sit down, unable to stand. I will not be surviving the zombie apocalypse.) I turn around and see the man still standing there, looking at me with a weird kind of smile on his face. "What?" I ask curtly, so tired of all the stares these people seem to think isn't rude at all.

Again he shrugs, that smirk on his face, "Wanna hang out some time? You don't seem to be making too many friends on your own."

I look at him with a spark of interest, because, I'm sorry, but I cannot resist an attractive black-haired (did I mention blue eyed?) man smirking at me and offering to hang out with me in a town full of crazed cross throwers. It's my turn to shrug and pretend like I have tons of other things to do, "… I guess… I do have a lot of unpacking to do, but I can squeeze you in somewhere." He smiles, actually smiles and I look on in appreciation. While I'm not looking for a relationship (I promise you!), I will always readily accept eye-candy as a good friend.

I traverse the yard and hold my hand out for his cell phone, entering it and my name when he offers it to me. "I'm Clayton, by the way. Clayton Ashby. It's nice to meet you Annabelle." He says all this with his nice smile and begins to turn and walk away, but a flash of panic goes through me and tells me to make him stop—if he goes, I'm going back in that house. I'm still not ready for that.

"I'm free now if you are…!" I say quickly and not as smoothly as I wanted to. He turns and takes a second to think.

"Mmm, yeah, I think I can squeeze you in." Clayton says, nodding before suggesting, "How about some coffee?"

Relieved, my shoulders relax a bit and I smile thankfully, "Yes that would be great. Oh, but I've got to feed my cat…" And I did, my mind throwing an image of the poor thing in there all alone. "Wait for me!" I order, and without looking back to see if he will, I run into the house with the intention of getting this shit over with as quickly as possible. My mind repeats "fuck" like a mantra designed to keep the ghosts I'm convinced are here away as I run to the kitchen and grab Louie's food. The house is silent enough, nothing to worry about, so I relax just a smidge enough to call my darling out to eat.

I don't get the usual response of a bell tinkling as I usually do when I yell dinner, so, naturally, with my newly fragile mind, I immediately become ten times as nervous. "Oh, Jesus," I whisper to the empty house, eyes darting around the kitchen.

I know, I know, 'If you're not religious, why you cryin' out to them so much?' Well, snotty reader, it's a habit, so chill out. (I'm sorry for being mean, but just let me have my habits!)

A rustling comes from the other room, startling me. My heart picks up speed and sounds in my ears, along with my blood rushing frantically. Going with horror-movie stupidity, I move slowly towards the sound… Which happened to come from the living room. Slowly, slowly, ever so slowly, I tiptoe to the wall separating the two rooms and sneak a peek around it…

"mmeee-OOOOW!" Louie pounces on my feet, batting at them as if they're mice needing to be exterminated. I let out a gasp, clutch my heart, tell my legs to be men, and shake my head.

"Louie. You crazy mother fucker." I pick him up and set him down in front of his food, which he happily devours as if he'd just finished a tough job, and pet his head a couple of times before he looks at me like 'okay, thanks, go away.' I take the hint and skip out of the house, locking the door behind me. Clayton stands there patiently waiting for me, looking at his watch.

"What took you so long?"

"My cat's crazy. It's okay though, he has a right to. He is ruler of the house after all."

He just looks at me, so I roll my eyes with a smile, "His name's King Louie XIV."

"Ah. Clever."

"I thought so."


	3. He Came In The Night

I'd really had a good time with Clayton—a lot of it was that I'd found one nice, relatively normal person in this town. He had his quirks, as everyone does, but sometimes, I noticed during our coffee outing, he'd have this weird twinkle in his eye. Don't ask me what that means. I have no idea! I'm not even sure if that's the best way to describe it. The man just exuded mystery. We'll put it at that.

But, on our cool walk to the downtown café, he introduced me to some of the people he personally liked, while simply waving at those he didn't think I'd get along with. He was charming; I could tell from those ten minutes he's well liked in the town. "You must be a native here, huh?" I asked, looking up at him through the hair blowing in my face.

"Yeah. Born and raised." He said with a little nod, hands in the pockets of his black peacock coat.

I couldn't imagine being stuck with the same people-pool my whole life. Having to live with the ones you hurt when you were immature or stupid, or having to live with the ones that hurt you when they were immature or stupid… I just can't imagine it. Constant reminders of a past you can't let go, whether because you won't let yourself or that other person won't.

I told Clayton so, and launched a discussion about moving vs. staying, in which I honestly feel my argument was sounder. We just talked, and walked, and eventually made it to a sweet little building that looked like it'd been made just long enough ago to wear its' time in a way that said 'amazing.' My eyes were wide the whole first five minutes we were in there before I finally got used to the cozy atmosphere the place had. How could such a place exist here?

After we'd gotten our coffee (he got a vanilla latte, me a mocha with an extra shot of espresso, no whip cream) we'd sat down at a little table overlooking the street and just talked. Sat and talked. It was a really nice change of pace from what I'd been getting in terms of socialization; it was a real conversation. Nothing of particular interest, but he did bring up my house at one point:

"You know why every old person in town is throwing Jesus at you?"

"No," I said, leaning forward and looking at him expectantly, "tell me though."

"They say…" He started slowly, eyes darkening and looking straight into my eyes, "the house is cursed." He wiggled his fingers in my face, whispering a lame, "oooo!" as he wiggled.

This caused me to roll my eyes and rest my chin in the palm of my left hand and give him a "of course it is" look. He saw it and shook his head convincingly, continuing on with, "No, really! The last owners were Satanist or something—they summoned demons constantly. Or at least tried to. Some people in town think they managed to summon the devil himself."

"Alright, alright, thanks—but this isn't really what I want to hear about the house I'm literally stuck with for at _least_ the next couple of years."

And the conversation ended at that.

After it'd hit 11 o'clock, we both agreed it was time to go to bed. No, I did _not _ask for him to "oh, please, come inside, it's so chilly and much too far to walk!" He's a man, he can make it home. We didn't even have a moment when we were saying goodbye. Though that weird twinkle did again appear in his eye. Yeah, I'm suspicious too. What was that? You think I'm just reading too much into things?

… Probably.

But it's _so_ creepy…

We'll just keep an eye out for him, shall we?

Anyway, after he left my doorstep and disappeared down the street, I carefully opened my door and was immediately greeted by my king. I took him up to the bedroom, where my bed had been set up at the foot of the old bed (those movers didn't take the bed with them. Never using them again!). I let out a long yawn, changed, snuggled into my white down comforter and drifted off easily to sleep.

* * *

Friday and Saturday went off without a hitch; the days blended together smoothly enough, with me mostly unpacking and turning the house into something I can call my own. Clayton visited for a bit on Saturday and tried helping me with my designing, but I had to kick him out; his taste would've ruined the inside of the house! Never trust a guy to help with interior design, I swear.

It's Sunday now, though, and the house looks tons better than I would've thought it could! All of my personal touches have been put in perfect position, the pillows match the drapes and the rug adds the right splashes of color—I'm rather happy with it, and snap a couple of pictures to send to my mom back at home.

Nothing had happened creepy-wise around the house, thankfully. No more—ahem—seduction attempts. Though a twisted part of mind wished for it. When that thought crossed my mind, I shook my head as if to toss the fantasy out of my head before it played itself out like a movie. I'll admit I have a certain fondness for sex with strangers, with surprise sex, but goodness, consensual! Well, at least for other people… I wouldn't mind not having a choice… _Bahh_, I think, blushing to myself (duster dreamily pushed against my cheek as I gaze off into nothing) before shooing the images away. It causes another chill to drag down my back, making me shudder and snap out of my stupor and continue cleaning.

Hours have passed since, filled with yet more cleaning, and I'm now standing in the kitchen making my dinner: salmon and asparagus, mmm! Delicious. The pepper, already hanging close to the edge of the counter, falls over and spills onto the floor. "Great," I hiss, putting the spatula down quickly to wipe up the mess of spice on the floor. I huffily push the pepper around with a wet towel before attempting to scoop it up; the oregano falls onto the floor right in front of my face, and I glare at the additional spill. _Arg, stop this_, I think, going to mop up the second pile absentmindedly.

Feeling I've accomplished my goal, what with the yet-again-shiny floors, I begin to get up off my knees to try to save the salmon, but, I won't just let my dinner be that simple; my elbow smacks the Pam off the counter as I swing myself up, and as I'm going down to get that, the fucking _salt _falls to the ground. "UGH," I mumble, yet again on my knees mopping, utterly frustrated, "Come ON!"

"Oohh," a voice whispers, "I just want you to pay attention to me…"

I drop the salt shaker immediately.

"… Annabelle… My sweet, sweet Annabelle."

_Fuck this_, my mind laments. I spring up and twist around so that my back is pressed firmly to the oven handle. I don't even care that it's pressing uncomfortably into my back; my right arm reaches out to grab one of the steak knives and holds it out in front of me like an almighty sword.

Again, nothing there. Refusing to give whatever it is what it wants, I calmly turn, set the knife down, and go back to my salmon. Which is a nicely browned-almost-black color, thank you very much. My kitchen returns to its normal silence, and I am content again. My shoulders relax, a sign that my body is ready to move on and pretend nothing had happened. Maybe I'm just going insane. Yeah, just your everyday, run of the mill schizophrenia here.

A soft, disappointed sigh echoes in the small kitchen, but I swear it's bouncing off the walls in my head.

"You've always been mine. I don't understand why you won't _PAY ATTENTION TO ME_."

The kitchen lights flicker before exploding, completely useless in the darkness brought on by the night weighing heavy outside; I gasp and spin around once more, the heat of the stove licking my back as I stare wide eyed at the figure in my kitchen. In a flash it's at my front, pushed so hard into me I let out a gasp of all the air I had in me- a strong hand goes to cover my mouth, roughly, it presses into my skin until there's no room for air to escape through the fingers. Fear, an intense and debilitating tidal wave of terror crashes into my body, rocking me at my core. My legs give way (see. I'm hopeless) and I start to buckle. The only thing keeping me lodged in an upward position is the force pinning me to the oven. My back starts to complain from the pressure, and the closer than ever heat source sure to eat away at me if I go any closer.

My eye brows, sweat starting to form above them, furrow harshly at the vision my teary eyes perceive: deep, dark (though the lack of lights does stitch blackness to everything) crimson irises with what I can't describe as anything but the angry lashes of a fire out of control. My chest heaves, heart beating wildly, as I finally put a face with the voice.

"Ah, _there _are those eyes of mine," The man murmurs, pressing his cheek against mine and rubbing affectionately. His nose finds its way to my hair and digs in; I feel his breath teasing my ear and curse the sensitive spot I have for soft breath there. My eyes close as he takes me in, almost feeling me with his whole self, so tightly pressed against me my lungs struggle to take in the air my body, my brain, desperately needs. I'm lucky his hand is low enough for me to slip air in through my nose.

"God," He breathes out into the crook of my neck—my eyes are widely staring at the wall behind him, body ever so shaking against this strange form, "How I've missed you. You can't tell me you don't _feel_ this…" He growls, pressing his teeth—SHARP, sharp teeth—down into my skin. I struggle to make a sound of pain into his hands as I feel them slightly break the skin. As soon as he drawls blood he stops, though, and laps it up without a thought. _A vampire_? The thought flashes through my mind—no, impossible. A lunatic with a thirst for blood and the delusion that I am his long lost Annabelle, come back for him. I've got to get away before he realizes I'm not her and takes it out on me…

He finally glances up at my eyes, the only window of communication I have, and sees my fear. His blindingly white teeth are visible through the dark (his whole face seems to be quite visible, though. He almost glows in the lack of light I struggle to see in) and they stretch out to form the most viciously satisfied grin I've ever seen. "Now, now, Annabelle," The man starts, the fire in his eyes stirring violently, "don't act like I shouldn't be here—" His grin turns malicious, and his face takes on one of crazed anger contained like a ticking time bomb, "I should—I should—I _should_," He continues, shaking his head in my face. "_Someone_ has to bring. You. Back. _Home_."

With his outburst, he lets the smallest bit of slack into his hand trapping my thoughts inside of me, and with that leeway, I scream out, "_SOMEONE HELP ME, PLEASE! PLEASE CALL THE POLICE_!" He immediately reclaims my mouth as his personal property, leaving me to shake my head violently in an effort to fling his appendage from my face.

"Tisk, tisk, my sweet. You know how I lose control of my temper…"

And as he grinds out the word 'temper,' he presses my back further and further into the flame, bending me backwards over the heat—if possible, my eyes open even further, searching desperately into his for him to just _stop_ this, whatever this is, _now_. Sweat rolls down my back, tears roll down my face, and I see a flicker in his eyes that is satisfaction at its fullest. He finally relaxes the grip he has on me. "See," He says, "you need me."

"WHAT the _FUCK_ are you talking about you INSANE man?!" I scream in his face, finally finding the burst of strength I need to propel him away from me. He lets it happen, and with the distance I've created, I turn enough to flick the gas off on the stove while still keeping him in my sights. "Get _OUT_ of my HOUSE and leave me the FUCK alone before I stab you and THEN call police! SERIOUSLY! GET. OUT. _NOW_." I swing my knife at his face, aiming for anything I can connect with, but he fluidly backs away laughing.

I follow, my weapon swinging—there's no way I'm going down without a fight.

"Oh, stop this, Annabelle, really," The man drawls lazily, dodging through my kitchen doorway and into the living room. He hits the back of the couch and seems to be taken by surprise by it, so I take my chance and attack. Springing forward, I plunge the knife into his chest, my face showing my utter disgust as it tucks itself into his chest without protest. It went through like butter. My mind flashes white and I feel woozy (yes… blood makes me pass out, too. Joy.) standing there, so I let go of the wooden handle and take a step away from him. He stays in place, staring at the knife inside of him.

I finally notice that there isn't any blood rushing forth from his body; it's as dry as a canyon, nothing changing in him but the annoyed look on his face. My bottom lip trembles as I watch him slowly pull the knife out of the area where his heart, you know, the main circulatory organ, should be. It comes out cleanly, with almost no trouble to him, and he lets out an exasperated sigh, as if every girl he tried to woo stabbed him in the heart with a steak knife.

Disgusted, shocked, and terrified for my life, I take a step back and gasp out, "What _are_ you?!" before running to my right and to the stairs. I sprint with all my might up them, and fling myself desperately at my door. I slam it shut, lock it, and thank God Louie stayed up in my room as I clutch him to my chest. With the door locked, I huddle in a corner of my room, pressed against the wall, hysterically trying to control my breathing.

He can't be real. This can't be real. If I go to sleep, all of this will be over. It's just a dream. No one could do that. It's all. Just. A. Dream.

So I close my eyes and pretend I don't feel eyes watching me from my walls.


	4. Clayton's Mom Has Got It Going On

I woke in the same position I fell into a troubled sleep in: folded tightly into myself and huddled in the corner, but without Louie. He'd jumped out of my arms sometime in the night when he decided I didn't need protecting anymore.

And I didn't think I did, while my half-asleep mind lazily came to life. I rub my eyes, slowly, peacefully, loving the feeling of having a decent night's sleep… But then it all comes back to me in a flash; all it took was one clear thought and bam, all the feelings from last night come rushing back into me, knocking the wind out of my chest. And _then_, I remember it's Monday. And I have work today. I jump up and leap towards the clock, grabbing it up and shoving it to my face: 7:43. Somehow still enough time to get ready and pretend I didn't have the worst dream of my life (because that's all it could logically be.)

But, for the sake of my sanity, I shove my dreams to the side and focus on reality. My glorious future starts now! I'll cure this town of its crazy and teach it to let go of their religious differences with the outside world! Yes! Today will be great!

With my positive thoughts and nervous feelings for my first day completely erase any trace of that wildly realistic nightmare in my head and give me a clean slate for the people I'm about to meet. I hurriedly climb into my work appropriate attire, a pencil skirt and nice blouse, run to feed Louie, grab my eyes, and then sprint to my car. The engine starts immediately and I'm on my way.

* * *

Abenshire Hospital is situated on the complete other side of the town, where the professional businesses decided to spring up and claim land. It doesn't look creepy at all, thankfully, though I've been assuming that of all places in this town as of late. They've already reserved me a parking spot! Ah! How sweet.

I park happily, right on time, and click my way up the concrete steps and into the lobby. The unmistakable smell of hospital hits me and I cringe, trying to force a smile somewhere in there for the poor receptionist having to look at my unhappy face. "Hi," I start cheerfully, "I'm Annabelle. I'm supposed to be meeting Dr. Wates for my first day here…?" Her face had started off blank, but at his name her eyes and visage showed that spark of familiarity I was hoping for.

"Of course! Just go straight down that hallway and follow the signs to the psychiatric wing of the hospital. You can't miss it!" She ends with a sweet smile, and I try to smile just as sweetly back and begin down said hall.

I get to the end of it, and follow the arrow to the left; then to the end of that hall and to the right. Finally I get to a door, the window barred, that reads "Psychiatric Ward—Licensed Personnel Only." I pause, take a look at it, shrug, and knock. The door's locked anyway, there's nothing else I can do. Miraculously, it opens not a second later, and I swear the door heard my call until I see a kindly old man looking at me from the crack of the opened door. "Dr. Wates?"

"Ah, Annabelle, yes, yes, come in! Please!" He smiles warmly at me and I smile back, the little nervous bubbles popping in my stomach as I follow him down the hall I'll be calling my home away from home. This place could use some decorating too… The ward reminded me too much of the ward in "One Flew Over The Cookoo's Nest;" just bland, depressing, and stark white. Why was I surprised though?

"Now, as I said over the phone, you get an immediate assignment to some of the patients here." The doctor explains as we walk, hopefully to my own personal office, "I don't want to start you off like we normally start our Psychologists—I want you right in there without any supervision. We're too understaffed as it is, I hope you understand." He doesn't wait for my reply and finally comes upon a door that DOES have my name on it! Oh happy day! We enter it as he continues on.

"I am starting you off with only three patients today, though, just so you can get a hold of what you need to do."

I nod my head enthusiastically, taking a folder he hands to me full of paperwork. "This contains a map of the ward, and the case files of the three patients you'll be seeing today. My office is right across from yours, but I will be out and about checking up on the patients as well. Find anyone and they'll help you gladly!" _Oh, I doubt that_, I think to myself as I nod, imagining a nurse here holding out a cross when I ask her for help. I snort aloud softly. That could totally happen.

He slowly backs out of my office, leaving me with my thoughts and the review of my patients, and I wave to him as he goes. Tough day I guess; I can get to know my coworkers another day, but I don't suppose my job really relies on them too much. I do think myself quite knowledgably of the human mind and its workings, so, if my internship and four years of schooling didn't prepare me enough to last through a day here, I might as well just quit. But, I'm not a quitter. Not by a long shot! Determination burning in my eyes, and with the fate of these people's lives in my hands, I dramatically flip open the manila folder. The first is a middle aged man, a native, born and raised, of Abenshire, just as Clayton is. It seems, though, that he… My eyes slide open and my mouth droops into a displeased frown.

"**Name**: Richard Thomas

**Age**: 48

**Diagnosis**: Paranoid schizophrenia, manic-depression (shown in his episodes of religious preoccupation).

Mr. Thomas spiraled into a deep depression once his wife, Gorgiana Thomas, passed this last spring. He began to hear voices, telling him that the "Prince of Trickery, the Demon of Sodomy, the Antichrist" had killed her and brought her back to Hell with him. He gradually lost all connection with reality, and no longer sees the world for what it really is.

**Please refrain from mentioning any sort of religion, demons, his wife, or jokes**.

Patient is known for **violent rages** when his state of mind is brought into question, as well as the existence of this demon, which he says follows and watches him constantly."

I nod, bite my lip, but ultimately shrug. We've all been through some shit. I didn't really understand what my job was if _not_ to bring up those painful realizations and help the person through it… _Oh well, I'll get to him last._

The next patient, a woman this time:

"**Name**: Lexie Peterson

**Age**: 19

**Diagnosis**: Bipolar Disorder

Miss Peterson was recently diagnosed with bipolar disorder after coming to us during the ever stressful times of college midterms. She experienced a period of intense, though dangerous mania, during which she excitedly believed she was super human and could fly. Luckily she jumped from a rather short building, and made it out with only a few broken bones and a following period of deep depression—she has been in our care ever since.

The patient is rather docile when not in one of her states. If she seems too excited, or gets too worked up and seems to lose touch with reality in any way, give her an **injection** to calm her down. She likes to run. **No reports of violence have been made**."

"Hm." I hum aloud, critically taking in every word. And this is where I love my job with a passion. The thought of getting into the mind of these two has me itching to go, but I quell my excitement to finish the final patient I'm responsible for:

"**Name**: Miranda Ashby

**Age**: 56

**Diagnosis**: Psychosis, Acute Panic Disorder, Delusions and Hallucinations

Mrs. Ashby was a very close friend of mine for most of our lives (I'm assuming this is the Dr. making these reports), so I usually take it upon myself to take care of her. Her husband abused her mentally and physically, but it steadily increased in intensity once their son went off to college. Mr. Ashby committed suicide, leaving the two alone in the world, though Mrs. Ashby's fragile state of mind leaves her to believe her only son doesn't exist. She sees him as a phantom, a figment of her imagination, and will not tolerate seeing him.

The patient's sentences and thoughts are often mixed and jumbled. She has terrible panic attacks when she it met with anything troubling, such as thoughts or reminders of her past or son, and swears that her living son isn't real. She's mentioned seeing people in her room with her on occasion.

** Treat her delicately.**"

Ashby… Ashby… Clayton! I gasp a bit and reread the file, all the while thinking, _That poor man… _Well, of course, that poor woman too, but think of what it would do to you if your parent stopped believing you were real. Ugh, if my mom looked at me as if I were a stranger I would break down and cry! I shake my head, sniffle a little, and decide immediately that I'm going to visit her first.

As I'm shuffling around, my mind wanders, and I wonder why he didn't tell me… Though I suppose this isn't really what someone just throws out into random conversation with a girl they'd just met. It makes sense. _Especially one as pretty as me_, I think, gushing a bit in my mind, _ah-hurr-hurr! _Okay, so you've got to know I don't mean it—I'm not someone that isn't effected when someone tells me I'm ugly. I'll probably go and, well, not cry about it, but I'll think about it a lot and eventually believe it or forget it. College really boosted my confidence, though. I love my long, brown-blonde hair and my normal brown eyes, along with my 5 foot 1 inch stature. I'm a petite, beautiful young woman, and the world is my oyster! _YEAH!_

_Anyway_, I finally leave my office and take out the map. The ward isn't that big or confusing, but neither is the town, so it makes sense that it wouldn't exactly need anything too huge. There's one long strip of hallway extending to the left of me when I exit my office; this is labeled as the "Treatment Hallway," which I assume means therapy rooms: group, individual, and as I guessed, an EKG room. I scoff and shake my head. I'd done a research paper on the effects of electroconvulsive therapy and it made me hate it with a passion. I just have the strong belief that we can change minds with_out_ erasing years of the patient's memory, or, you know, killing them.

Across from me, as he said, is the Dr.'s office, and when I step towards the Treatment Hall, straight ahead of me now is another long hallway that extends to the end of the building; a barred window is at the dead end. That hall, connected to the large Day Room to my left (scattered with some patients here and there, casually doing their morning thing), is labeled "Patient's Rooms." So, that's where I head.

I cross the Day Room, and some of the more aware patients life their heads up to watch me go. I offer them smiles and get few in return. They'll get used to me being a part of their routine, and when they do, I'm sure I'll get more. Looking down at the record for Mrs. Ashby, I find her room in the long row of rooms, and knock softly. I hear an equally soft "come in."

I peek my head in first, giving her a warm smile, and introduce myself. "Hello Mrs. Ashby! I'm Annabelle Crooks, I'm just going to be taking care of you today while the doctor's busy running around. I hope that's alright!"

The older lady just nods, smiles, and says, "Oh, whatever you say dear."

I nod as well, happy that it's going so well so far, and enter the room. It's bland, to say the least, with a standard bed, bedside table, and lamp. The walls are scattered with her artwork and offer up the only splash of personality and color in the otherwise stark white area. Though what I see isn't exactly pretty. They're all pictures, scribblings, of deep crimson eyes and a wide, maniacal smile. I feel the blood drain from my face and a frown pull on my mouth.

"Mrs. Ashby? What're your paintings about?"

"Oh?" Her eyes brighten slightly, and she looks up with a faraway look on her face, "Oh, it's my son. He's the only one that comes and visits me." The woman lets out a sigh, and twiddles her fingers. I stare between the eyes, with a familiar flashing of fire in them even on paper, and the woman sitting on the bed.

"Your son?"

"Yes. My real son. Not the one everyone tries to make me believe I have," She scoffs, as if terribly offended, and continues with pure hatred in her frail voice, "I could never have a son like that."

The venom in her voice shocks me to the core, Clayton's face in my mind. Her mind must be replacing her real son with… With what? That is what I can't grasp. What is this person invading my dreams and, apparently, this woman's too? "How often does he come? He must be a good son." I ask her, searching for my own answers through her. Wrong, I know, but bear with me here. Maybe fixing my weird sleep would help her too. Especially if she had the delusion of that monster being anything better than Clayton.

"He is, he is! The only light in my life!" She gushes dreamily. "He only has time at night, though, but I understand. He's a busy man!"

I nod slowly and smile at her as she looks up at me, love in her eyes for the son she thinks she has. "Your breakfast is coming soon, okay? Hold tight." I slowly close the door on her absentminded state. She was absolutely delusional, but at least I caught her when her sentences made sense. I sigh a bit, not as prepared for this as I thought I was, and continue on to visit my other two patients.

* * *

My day starts at 9:00 am and ends at 5:00 pm. Just like I always wanted, a regular 9 to 5 job to make me feel grown up. The first day had been interesting, nothing too exciting, but draining. I'm a compassionate person; seeing the mental states of the three people I met today just fueled the fire I have to help them. My thoughts stayed with Clayton and his mom the whole day, no matter who I was talking or listening to. The coincidence is just too great for me to ignore. Those eyes… I shudder a bit and turn up the volume in my car. I just got out of the hospital and I'm heading home, driving slower than I usually do.

Should I talk to Clayton about this? It seems like it'd be a tough conversation to have, but…

_"I need your love, I need your time, when everything's wrong, you make it right…"_

I jump as my ring tone loudly screams from my purse in the passenger seat. Ahh, speak of the devil.

"Clayton! Hey!"

"Hey, Annabelle. What're you up to?"

Facial expressions still on full blast, I reply, "Weeell, you must be keeping a close eye on me, I just left work. Did you have something in mind?"

"I did, I did… It's a beautiful day out," And it was! A perfect 71 degrees with not a cloud in the sky! "and I was wondering if you'd want to go to the park or something. Walk around some more, you know, explore your new home."

I can't help but smile, excited, "Yeeeaah, you got me, I'd love to. Just let me go home and change. Come on by in, say, 30 minutes?"

"I'll be there." And the line goes dead. I drop my phone into my lap and notice my mood is already a lot better; friendly interaction is always welcomed. But, I still am not sure about asking him about his mom… Oh, what am I saying? I know I'll let it slip into the conversation; it'll be on my mind the whole time anyway, so I know there's no use trying to avoid it.

After parking, I stroll up to my door, unlock it and enter, feed my cat (he's a growing baby, he needs his food), and then go up to my room to change.

I pick a nice navy blue, ruffled sun dress and simple white sandals out of my modest closet (how I wish it were more Narnia like) and start changing right in there, rushing a bit because I know I have to do my hair and retouch my makeup. I worry about these things!

"Annabelle…"

I trip and stumble, my panties half-way off (yes, I change those too to match my outfit…) and keeping me from regaining my balance. "Who the…" I start, anger and confusion dripping from my voice, before I run head first into the back of my closet and tumble down to land on my butt. I huff and call out, "Clayton, who the hell just walks right into someone's house? And then scares them? Really, man?" The clothes hanging down cover my view of my room, but I see black boots standing in front of me. "And come on, don't freaking waltz right into my room… I'm changing…" I pout, rubbing my abused head with one hand and trying to pull my panties up with the other.

Clayton just chuckles and says nothing else, stirring my anger a little. It's not like I've known him forever; this level of comfort might be there for him, but I take a little bit longer to open up to people enough to let them be in the room with me as I'm stripping (unless they've got a hundred dolla bill ya'll…! … Just kidding…). I finally get my clothes in order and push myself up, breaking through the hanging clothes and coming face to face with a man I've never seen before in my life.

You all know what happens next… A sharp, piercing scream erupts from my mouth… And I'm staring into those fire-y eyes once again. All humor and lightheartedness leaves my body instantly, and I start throwing my clothes, hangers and all, at the figure a foot in front of me. "Get the fuck away from me and get out of my house, ohmygod, you insane person—" My breathing hitches and catches in my throat and I swing at him wildly, all the while surrounded by his stupid, mocking laughter. I'm sick of it!

He catches one of my flying fists and kisses the knuckles gently, almost apologetically, and I stop, eyes wide, and stare at him, shocked into silence. He continues to kiss my knuckles until my hand relaxes and opens up. Then he takes his time kissing each of my fingers, his eyes closed and face deceivingly peaceful. My mind doesn't know what to think, but I just can't control my body when this… _thing _(my mind offers up yesterday as a shield against whatever he's doing) is around.

Finally, slowly, dare I say seductively, he opens his eyes and locks them with mine—a shock of nerves and feelings attack my stomach in a way I hate to admit I liked. That look communicated a feral lust I've never had thrown my way before. My cheeks flush with color unwillingly, and all time stops in that little closet. No, that closet becomes a whole other world where only he and I share the same space, the same breath… And then he flashes a blinding white smirk at me, with only the tiniest bit of teeth, and the spell is broken. I gasp for air and simultaneously realize I hadn't been breathing.

"Who are you?" I manage to push out into the deafening silence.

"Your soulmate. Your King." He stares into my eyes and doesn't blink once (I swear I haven't seen him do it yet). I shake my head in disbelief, flabbergasted at the scope of madness this man must be dealing with in his head. "You belong so completely to me it rips me apart inside when we are apart…"

"I'm so tired of hearing you say shit like this, you know I have no idea what you mean," I harshly whisper at his face, now inches from mine, "If you need to talk to someone, I actually work somewhere you can go and get help—if you want, we can work on it together… But until then, you really need to go and stop breaking into my place."

He shakes his head, his smirk still in place, and I take this time to etch his figure into my mind. He's taller than me, obviously, by at least a foot, with muscles defined just enough to warn people that he can defend himself and win. His hair is a glossy black, perfectly messed (oh, I know, let me continue to describe the perfect human being—I'm sorry, maybe I'm slightly biased with having him in front of me, but I don't know what other word to use but _perfect_), with dark lashes framing and bringing out the bright crimson that expressed his thoughts so well. His lips are thinned, again, to perfection, so that the smirk he wears seems right at home on his pale face—like porcelain, by the way.

"You can't be human…" I murmur, another slight shake of the head following the rhetorical statement.

"Ah!" He exclaims, overjoyed at my stepping into the light and realizing the truth. "You remember then!"

"No," I say forcefully, frustrated, "I don't know what the hell you're talking about and I'd like for you to start explaining or leaving."

I don't know why I gave him options. Maybe because I've learned by now there is no way I can make him leave. Or maybe I really don't want him to leave.

"Alright. I am a demon King from Hell, and you are my Queen. I plan on taking you back home, where you and I belong."

… Haaaaaaaaa…

My vision goes, and I think I hit the heel of one of my high heels with my head before loosing consciousness.


End file.
